As adrenaline surges through my system, I forget about the tall, muscular figure in the perfectly fitted suit leading the way in front of me. Cases like these are the reason I wanted to become a lawyer. A case interesting enough to consume your every thought. I don’t want my thoughts consumed with regulatory body act number 42 and trading act 1977.
We are led by one of the security men up the wide steps and into the hallway, which has high ceilings and walls adorned with paintings and art installations.
“Apparently it used to be an embassy,” Adi whispers. “The entire street is embassies or former embassies.”
Maria is waiting for us in a lavish library, the perfect space for entertaining if she were allowed to have guests other than lawyers. I recognise her immediately, although she’s gaunt now compared to the glitzy media pictures. The story of the handsome hotelier and his young model wife. It was a fairy tale in Colombia for many years until it turned into a horror story.
My heels catch in the frays of the impractically thick carpet, and I trip into the room, cursing.
“Careful,” Adi mutters, narrowing his eyes.
“Maria?” Tristan asks with a professional smile.
She glides forward offering her own dazzling smile and takes his hand, shaking it how I imagine royalty would. To my surprise, she’s just as impeccably dressed as the media presents her. I was expecting someone about to get arrested to be in lounge wear with no make-up.
Her eyes flash with interest, as every woman’s eyes do when they meet Tristan Kane.
I stand behind the others as Maria offers us seats. I know my place, my lack of experience automatically ranks me as the inferior in the room and I should do as I’m told.
Adi beckons to a chair beside him, and I take it.
It’s easy to see why Maria Garcia would capture the interest of one of the richest men in South America. Before she killed him, that is. A natural brunette, her flawless features and icy blue eyes make her look almost doll-like. Her long legs stretch out under the coffee table, and I wonder how she manages to maintain her hair at salon quality while hiding out. She’s exquisite, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the males in the room.
At least I know Tristan can’t sleep with his client. I hope.
Tristan reclines in the leather armchair closest to Maria. He takes up more space in the room than anyone else, and I don’t just mean physically. Taking control of the niceties he introduces the team and our roles. His words are drawn out and low with pregnant pauses, perhaps to relax Maria. He asks pleasantries about the house and the neighbourhood, which he seems to know a lot about.
She anchors her attention on Tristan. She doesn’t look like a woman pleading for help or concerned about impending jail or death. More like a predator who has found her next meal.
If Tristan notices, he doesn’t react. The darling of Colombia’s fashion shows sits across from him, mirroring his body language, smiling and dazzling at the right moments.
Maria signs the consent form and I start recording the meeting.
I listen in awe as Tristan explains the intricate details about her extradition request and what will happen once an arrest warrant is issued. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows showing his muscular forearms, like he’s getting ready for a fight or a fuck, maybe both. I try not to let my gaze drop down to his naked skin.
“How long can I expect to be in prison until the preliminary hearing?” Maria asks. I look around the library which is more luxurious than most hotels I’ve stayed in. Maria seems tough but transitioning from a luxury house in Kensington to prison seems like it would be a shock to the system.
“Two to three weeks,” Tristan confirms. “We will be working on your asylum case in the meantime. Your initial asylum interview will be this week. One of our team will be with you in the meeting.”
My teeth latch on to my bottom lip as I watch Tristan in action. This is why my heart couldn’t handle only a quick fling with him. There’s nothing sexier than a guy who is top of his field.
Ironically, I’m not sure if I’m more aroused hearing his low husky voice groaning my name as he climaxes or discussing the intricacies of the asylum-seeking process.
As if feeling my eyes on him, he tilts his head in my direction and gives me an intimate smile. It’s enough for Maria to also turn her attention to me. I smile back politely then look away flustered.
Over the next ninety minutes, I make a conscious effort to focus on his words rather than him. With a slow calm dominance that isn’t forced, he teases what we need out of Maria.
In those ninety minutes, I get a very confusing picture of Maria. The media Maria is different from the real-world Maria. This one is just as charming, but I see flashes of something darker. When she focuses her unnerving, beautiful gaze on me, a chill bolts up my spine. Intense, unblinking eye contact makes me feel like someone has walked over my grave.
By the time we are done I walk out of my first client meeting, hot, flustered and ready to submerge myself in an ice-cold bath.
13
Elly
“The cars will take you home,” Tristan informs us as we walk out of Maria’s house onto the street where the two Aston Martins we came in sit parked.
“That’s not necessary for me,” I respond politely. “I’ll take the underground.”
The drivers are waiting outside the cars. Panic sets in as I lock eyes with the driver of the car I hadn’t arrived in. It’s George, Tristan’s driver who I did the drive of shame with from the Rosemont Hotel. His brow furrows as he tries to remember how I’m familiar to him. I return a strangled smile.
“I insist.” It’s not open for negotiation. “Lisa, Adi, take the first car. Elly, get in the second car.
George is going southbound.”
The others shrug and get in the first black Aston Martin.